The Baghdad Blogger goes to Washington: day one

In the run-up to the Iraq conflict, a web diary from Baghdad captured a global following. Its author, Salam Pax, reluctantly supported the invasion. Now he journeys for the first time to the city where the decision was taken for war - and asks if it's already too late for freedom in his country

Thursday 21 October 2004 20.42 EDT
First published on Thursday 21 October 2004 20.42 EDT

I really don't like my passport: it is too big and has a colour that reminds you of something that has been sitting for too long in your fridge. But what I hate most about it is that when an immigration officer takes a look at it they will usually ask me to step aside and follow them into a small room.

Everybody in the airport immigration queue at JFK in New York already hates me because it is taking too long, and now that I am being led away like this it makes everyone look at me as if I have just threatened to assassinate their favourite cartoon character.

This is the moment where, in a perfect world modelled on Bollywood movies, I would break into song and dance; my chorus boys would be the beautiful boys in turbans and beards brandishing their "axis of evil" passports and I would look as fabulous as Kylie Minogue while singing: "What do I have to do to get the message thru? I am Iraqi, Iraqi!" It would be a hit with everyone at the airport and I would be escorted by adoring fans to the limousine waiting outside

But this is not a Bollywood movie and I am being taken to a "secondary screening". My first visit to the USA might just end up with me being shackled and sent to a very unpleasant place where the colour orange is the height of fashion.

Mind you, a friendly soul at this paper's office did offer comforting words: if I ever did end up in Guantánamo Bay they would just change my title to the Guantánamo Blogger, he said, promising that they would still be interested. Thanks. My only worry is, I don't think orange is a colour that suits my complexion.

The immigration officer led me to a room on the side where four officers were sitting on a very high podium joking about some guy they didn't like, and one of them was shouting, "Deport him, deport him!"

I smile: it's tough trying not to look nervous when you are in front of a panel of four archangels who will decide whether you deserve to enter paradise. I am handed a piece of paper to fill out. I am relieved it does not ask me to list my sins on this earth. Meanwhile, more non-whiteys are arriving and filling out forms. I feel a bit more relaxed among my fellow exiles from the ranks of normal people. We are special: we are all from Muslim countries.

When my turn comes to step up to the podium for the archangels to question my reasons for entering this land of dreams, this heaven on earth, I get asked a question that will trouble me for a long time after the interview is over: "Sir, are you religious?"

Now, I am the type of Muslim who would tell you that even if there was an Allah hovering up there, he should be punished by collective disobedience because he has been doing a miserable job.

So the answer to Mr Immigration Officer would be a hearty: "Oh, no. I dropped that potato a long time ago." But instead I keep looking at the little cross hanging from his neck and feel like telling him that this is none of his business. But I don't. We all know why he is asking me this question and what my answer should be: "No, sir, I am not religious and I do not know how to prove that to you." I feel ashamed that I have just said these words.

No time to dwell on that. I have another flight to catch to Washington and I am so tired I will fall asleep standing if I don't keep moving. I vaguely remember staring for too long at a huge wall full of magazines and newspapers and wondering: who has the time to read all that? I bought everything that had the word Iraq on the cover.

Next thing, I am standing in line to board a small plane to Washington DC. There is something strangely familiar in this setup; I am just not sure what it is until I am asked to spread my legs and lift my arms. By Allah, this is like going into the green zone in Baghdad, only everyone is so friendly. That's what is different: they smile and say, "Have a nice day" after they pat you down, but it is the basic green zone experience. Kind of makes you homesick.

On the flight we are instructed not to stand up from our seats once we get within 30 minutes of Washington; otherwise we will not be allowed to land. Too much weirdness, and I haven't even landed yet. I fall asleep in the taxi to the hotel, in Georgetown.

Day one

First thought this morning was: what am I doing here? Why am I in Washington? If word gets out I will end up on two wanted lists: my cousins', because they will all want presents from DC, and the list of my friendly neighbourhood kidnap gang back in Baghdad. If you ask their opinion, I am at the heart of darkness; I am Halal meat; head does not belong where it is now and all that.

I have no plan. My "to do" list has only two items on it: 1. Panic. 2. Think about food. (The first does not rule out the second under Pax logic.) There is enough time for the first item, but I wake up too late for breakfast in the hotel and I have to go out. I get myself a kids' tourist map (the only one they had at the hotel: the treasury department is an Uncle Sam throwing money around) and go to the nearest bagel place. I am officially a bagel fan now.

My big bagel is full of eggs that come out of a milk carton (I kid you not - and already beaten, too. They must have such clever hens here. I am flabbergasted) and smoked bacon. (All future immigration officers are to refer to this: I am not religious - I eat forbidden meat).

Munching on this feast of strange and forbidden food I decide to do a pilgrimage to the White House, taking my cues from a religion I have betrayed publicly just so that I can get into this land; to walk around this shrine to freedom and democracy seven times, kiss the black stone, then throw seven stones at the pillar of evil and run between the two mounds of Safa and Marwa seven times, the whole thing minus the white robe but plus baseball cap. There was one small detour: my map showed a place called Foggy Bottom - and I had to see what a foggy bottom looked like.

It didn't work out as well as I thought it would. To start with, the Foggy Bottom detour was a waste of time. It seems the gods here don't think much of circumambulation rituals: you can't walk around the White House. So I just stood there and gawked.

While I was meditating on the whiteness of the White House, four American soldiers wearing desert fatigues came and joined the gawkers, and the only thing I could think of was how much I missed home. I mean, how sad is that: I see soldiers in combat fatigues and go all gooey, like ET wanting to go home. No prizes for identifying what's wrong with this picture.

Since walking around the White house was out of the question, I thought maybe I'd go inside to find a black stone to kiss, the next step in this, my pilgrimage to the capital that wants to bring freedom and democracy to the malnourished, undereducated third world.

I locate a guard and ask about White House tours. She tells me these have to be arranged through my senator. Oh, shucks. Now, how am I going to get in touch with John D Negroponte all the way back in the US ambassador's dugout in Baghdad?

Throwing stones at the pillar of evil also had to be abandoned because I don't think anyone here will find an Iraqi throwing seven pebbles at the Washington Monument amusing. Only one ritual remains; running between the Safa and Marwa mounds. The Mall seems the place to do that, and I finally get a sign: the ground is spattered with Run Against Bush stickers. So what else to do but run?

Later

Tonight is the last presidential debate and the New York Yankees are playing against the Boston Red Sox, which is probably equally important. I was invited to watch both with a group of young Democrats. I was promised red wine, crunchy munchies and a crash course in baseball and the art of presidential debates - two reasons why America is such a great nation, I am told.

Two TVs ensured that you missed nothing, and a big bowl of lollipops ensured the sugar levels stayed high. There was so much juicy gossip it was hard to pay much attention to the debate. Did you hear the one about George Bush being intimate with Condoleezza Rice? Apparently she has told some reporter she really enjoys solving crossword puzzles with the president. Wink wink, nudge nudge.

Ultimately, the conversation turns to Iraq. We all seem to agree that even if John Kerry gets elected as president it is too late for a drastic change in policy. I am surprised at how much everyone here seems to have bought what the Bush administration has been selling them - especially the line about a well-educated Iraqi middle class that will take over and transform Iraq into a democratic paradise.

To tell you the truth, I bought into that as well - and boy were we wrong. That educated middle class was everywhere around the world, but not in Iraq. What it decided to do was to shut its mouth or turn religious.

And that is another thing that seemed to be incomprehensible to one of my new Washington friends: when we were talking about the popularity of the clerical militia chief Moqtada al-Sadr I was asked how anyone could be fooled by someone who so obviously used religion to boost his own popularity and went for the lowest common denominator for popular appeal? I was saved by another guest who asked if we were talking about Bush or Sadr here.

So how did the crash course in baseball and presidential debate go? Baseball: you hit the ball and run. Politics: never admit you made a mistake, so . . . hit the ball and run, I guess.